No Drink
by La Donna Ingenua
Summary: It's nothing. Except is it. They don't like each other. Except they do. They are too different. Except they aren't. She is aloof, untouchable. Except he does. Modern AU. It's very, very complicated.
1. 1 Wine

_A/N: Thank you to Lala Kate for the prompt starting this all. Wine, Lips, Stare. I wrote a drabble, read it back, and realized I wrote Mary and Charles without intending to. So it's my first go at them and my first go at a Modern AU (taking place in America). The title comes from Mumford and Sons' "Lover's Eyes." I intend for this story to start as if the reader is watching this relationship through a pinhole and each chapter for the view to become wider and deeper. This will be the longest author note you ever see for this story. I've promised myself. I'm also nervous. (Forgive slow updates because my other work-in progress, A Girl You Knew, is a priority as it is at the tail end)._

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_1. Wine_

"Don't look at me like that," she tells him coldly, as they wait by the ornate front door, each waiting for their town car to pull around.

"I'm not looking at you," he replies stiffly. He pulls his shoulders back, though both already carry themselves with a kind of proud arrogance that results in perfect posture. Mirroring her is not lost on him and yet he cannot do anything about it. Of course, the straighter he stands, the more he lies. While he avoided her eye for most of dinner, dessert was another tale altogether. Her lips, stained by the red wine she drank, beckoned him. He could not help but stare, even as they debated on sustainability in third world countries.

"Just because you are friends with my father," she continues cooly without looking to the left or the right. He never knew that stillness could be something beautiful; she is a statue but with life just below the surface of her pale skin, blood rushing through her veins–able to tremble but unwilling to."Just because he has these asinine ideas, like trying to push us together–"

"Just because we slept together that once?" he interrupts. He can't help it. She is unattainable in the structured emerald dress, cut just above the knees, with diamonds cheerfully winking from her ears through her long dark hair. It would be easier if she worked hard to look the way she does but as far as he can tell, it's effortless–wine used for color on her lips instead of lipstick.

She ignores this, except for raising a single eyebrow. Though he is right; they did sleep together. Once. Only once. Only once and not to be repeated. "...does not mean you can look at me like that. So kindly stop."

She doesn't mean it kindly. She's never meant anything she's ever said to him kindly. Still, he moves behind her. "I'm not looking at you." He places his hand lightly on her hip, his voice very near her ear. She lets out a silent breath to keep from jumping at his touch. Her stillness costs her but she would never tell anyone such a thing.

"I can feel you looking at me." Sometimes it is even too difficult to be still and perhaps that is why she dislikes him. They both ignore the fact that she is a bit breathless, that her chest starts to rise and fall like the beating wings of a hummingbird.

"I am not looking at you." He takes a step nearer, moves the sweep of her long hair away from the nape of her neck with his fingertips. He places a slow, deliberate kiss there. "I am doing the opposite of looking at you."

Her knees begin to shake. They ignore this too. "This is not happening again."

His hand trails up her hip, along her torso, before retreating back down again, just before her breast. "When you say this is not happening again...Do you mean we won't be forgoing our separate cars back to the city? And we definitely won't make out like teenagers the whole drive, barely making it back to your place? And, of course, you most definitely will not throw me out of your apartment in the morning?"

"That..." she pauses searching for the right words. She is always composed. Somehow, her bottom is snug against the front of his trousers and she wants... "That was not...That was a mistake."

He laughs lowly in her ear. She bites her lip at the sound of it. "Thank you for admitting throwing me out before I could get my pants on was a mistake."

"I wasn't referring to..." Her chest is rising and falling more quickly now, her heart pounding in her ears. She wonders if he can hear it as both of his hands trace designs on her hips (he does have lovely hands), bringing her back and his front firmly together. She bites her lip a second time; only this time, she makes herself bleed to hold back a moan. "What I mean to say is–"

She takes a small step forward but both of them know she isn't going anywhere. The wanting between them is palpable, like heat coming off them in waves. She turns, takes him by the lapels and pulls him to her and they stumble into the wall behind them. His lips are ravenous and one of her hands slips beneath the collar of his white starched shirt to the tan of his skin. One of his hands grasps hers, tightening until bone rubs against bone, and linked, he raises their arms above her head. "Oh God," she moans, her leg hitching its way up his thigh so his other hand can slide along it, touching the pale skin of her knee and then rubbing against the the fabric of her dress.

Her lips taste of red wine–pinot noir–and she is making these tiny gasping sounds in the back of her throat, driving him insane. Headlights graze their bodies which move against one another in a slow and inevitable rhythm. "Car's here," he mumbles against her throat. Where is the zipper on this dress? This must be madness, in her father's house, wondering how to remove her dress.

"Whose?" she asks, her head thrown back against the wall as she tries to wind herself around him. Unfortunately, the conservative hemline of the dress and the black pumps make it a little difficult.

"Does it matter?" He hates this dress with it's high and folded neckline, how it shows her arms but not her legs, with its imaginary zipper. But he loves it too because she is lovely in it, because she is letting him touch it, a thin barrier before her skin.

She pushes him away suddenly, though she cannot seem to part from the bottom half of him. "Wait. No."

"No?" he asks, his eyes piercing, breathing heavy. "If it's no, then we'll stop. I'll–"

"I don't know if it's no," she hisses. "Obviously, it's not completely no." She rubs herself against his belt buckle. "But there must be rules."

"Fine," he says shortly. The control it takes keep himself from matching her small thrusts may drive him insane. "Such as?"

"We don't ever talk about it." She is breathing as if she ran a marathon. "We don't discuss it ever again. And this...Only this once."

"Twice," he contradicts and presses his hand to the place where her heart beats erratically.

Her brown eyes narrow. "_That's_ talking about it."

He holds his hands in the air in surrender. "All right."

"And we tell no one," she insists, taking his hands and placing them back on her hips. His nose grazes her cheekbone. "No one," she whispers before he kisses her, slowly this time– thoroughly–his tongue tracing the seam of her lips.

He takes her hand then, pushing the door open. "And don't think we're having sex in the limo." She whirls around to face him, her hair long and twisting in the wind.

"Do you consider that a hard and fast rule?" he asks, squeezing her hand in his. "Pun intended, of course." His teeth are blindingly white as he grins. She hates his charm, that it's genuine. She has to hate it in order to keep herself from liking him. She cannot like him.

"No jokes," she hisses at him. "You aren't funny."

They wait for the driver to come around and open the door for them. In the meantime, somehow her backside once again nestles itself into his front. If it were daylight, they would cast a single shadow. "Right. I'm not looking at you. I'm not making jokes. I'm not funny."

"Exactly." She lets out a long breath. "And the thing about the limo?"

"Yes?"

"For the record, I might have spoken prematurely. I could be persuaded to break that rule." Then she climbs elegantly into the car, ever the lady.

* * *

He pants against the long length of her throat, his mouth dry, his hands on the smooth skin of her naked hips. She points her toes against his calves–still–and he remembers from the first time, the last time this happened, she did the same thing before letting out a loud, singular moan she could not hold back, going limp in his arms but for the pointed toes, evidence of her former profession as a ballerina. One hand slides up along the side of her body, gentle against pale skin, her stomach, the side of her breast.

Her hand flexes in his hair spastically. The nape of his neck is sweaty with the effort it took to withstand her in the limo, make it up the elevator with her neighbors eyeing them sideways, stumbling into her apartment like two drunken teenagers, swearing as she tripped over her heels, swearing again when her hand slipped to the buckle of his belt, maneuvering towards the bed, banging his elbow against the door frame, falling artlessly on the mattress, crawling up her body, dragging at her dress while she eagerly stripped him of his own clothes, the ecstasy of naked skin pressed to naked skin, pulling each moan and groan from her like a triumph with his tongue and lips, reaching for his jacket, her cursing as she struggled to rip the package open before taking care of the rest, sliding into her slowing, hissing out a breath, feeling her quiver around him.

Now, he feels (but does not see) her mouth open and close. She remains silent deciding whether to throw him out gracefully or gracelessly (although the question of throwing him out, he believes, is redundant). Despite the obvious chemistry (her toes still curl firmly against his calves, their legs tangled), she does not like him or will not like him. Everything he says is repungent to her; she must always have the last word. She remains aloof and still, except when they are like this, languid limbs still trembling in the aftermath, when she cannot remain aloof or still. But despite all this, he does not want to be thrown out (he would bite off his own tongue before admitting such a thing). His only hope is to feign sleep, which he does, his eyes blinking closed, body sliding halfway off of hers, hand swooping in a sleepy fashion to cup her breast with familiarity.

He feels her look down at him and she lets out a sigh before settling back into her pillow, her toes leaving his calves. As off as it sounds, even in his head, he misses them. She removes his hand from her breast and with a grunt, rolls him the rest of the way off of her and onto his back. He fights not to smile, imagining her expression. She leaves the bed altogether and he does not hear the rustle of clothing so he can only imagine she walks around the apartment naked. Through the slit of his eye, he sees the lights go out in the other rooms of the apartment and she returns with a glass of water in her hand. She gulps it down, sitting beside him on her bed, probably staring daggers at him, wondering if she should shake him awake. But maybe he is wrong. The next thing he hears is the opening of medicine bottle, the rattle of pills. She takes another drink of water. She curls toward the very edge of the bed.

She turns the lamp off.

So this time she lets him stay over.

* * *

She does shake him awake though the morning sun is shining on one side of his face when she does. "Do you always sleep so late?" she snaps.

He blinks the sleep from his eyes. She is wearing a silk robe in ivory, her hair loose down her back, holding a cup of coffee. He smiles slowly, against his will. "Is that for me?"

She takes a deliberate sip. "No," she tells him. "Although if a cup of coffee will get you out of my bed quicker, I would be more than happy to make it."

He glances at his watch, still on his wrist, never wrestled off from the night before. "It's six thirty on a Saturday."

She is still again, the robe knotted tightly, though her eyes narrow slightly. "I am aware of the time."

"Do you always get up this early?" he asks, sitting up in bed, running his hands through his messy dark hair.

"I wasn't aware my personal habits were any of your business," she chirps, setting her coffee aside on the nightstand. There is a photograph there they both ignore. She reaches down to pick up his pants and throws them at him.

"I'm trying to have a conversation with you," he continues.

"We have those," she replies, hands on her hips, chin tilted. "When my father invites you to dinner without telling me."

He grins. "Those are more like debates." He rolls to the edge of the bed and steps into his trousers before sitting with them unbuttoned, his belt still undone. He leans forward, elbows on his knees while she stares at the wall behind him. "Last night–"

"You're breaking a rule," she cuts him off with a bored tone. "You said you wouldn't talk about it."

"All right," he replies amiably. "Now that it's happened twice–"

"You're doing it again."

He decides to leave. It will always be a battle between them until he spots her toes, just at the edge of her robe, painted a vivid red. He remembers the way, at the very end, her toes point and flex against his calf, the tightness before she goes limp.

He slips a finger under the knot of her robe and pulls her between his thighs. She comes willingly enough, even raising her hands to his bare shoulders. She touches him but she does not hold on. "You should be careful," he warns. "You'll give me the impression you don't like me talking at all."

"I don't," she breathes while his hands slide around her hips to her bottom and tugs her forward. "Don't talk," she whispers before her mouth descends on his. She taste of coffee and toothpaste and now she does hold on to him, leaning in, while his hands drag up her body and tangle themselves in her hair.

The silk falls off one of her shoulders. Their noses brush when he pulls away, fingers on her chin. "Tell me you want me to stay."

Her eyes are closed and she rubs her lips together, savoring the kiss. Then, she opens her eyes, staring at him. He remembers her wine stained mouth from the night before. "No," she murmurs. "I won't tell you that." She takes a step closer to him so once again, they are pressed together while she makes a humming sound in the back of her throat. He leans back onto the bed and she follows, a dance to be repeated again in the morning light.

* * *

_A/N: I am so nervous to share this and would appreciate feedback._


	2. 2 Champagne

_A/N: Short notes for this story. The title comes from Mumford and Son "Lover's Eyes." I recommend listening to it. Like I said, each chapter will reveal more and more about the characters. Thanks to L and C for their enthusiasm. _

* * *

_2. Champagne_

When their feet are not arched impossibly high on stage, once the slippers come off, no one realizes the ugliness of ballet dancers' feet. These feet are built for strength not for beauty, and so for the gala, Mary doesn't wince in her heels or shift from foot to foot–she is built for strength, not for beauty. She greets the guests with a smile and charm, alongside her father, for the thousand dollar a plate gala, benefitting the victims and families' affected by drunk driving. The irony–several of the guests drink until sloshed–is not lost on Mary; she would like to shake them, but they paid and their money is more important tonight–for this. She also knows if you are wealthy enough to attend a dinner where a meal costs a thousand dollars, you are wealthy enough to take a black car, or at the very least, a cab–hailed discreetly down the block so your peers don't notice. It's more than she can say for one of her sisters, apparently too drunk to even show up in the first place. But that's not something to be discussed.

"_Hello, so good to see. Thank you for coming."_

She says this hundreds of times without minding because she is built for strength. Though of course, glancing at her in the strapless blue dress, haired pulled back, diamonds winking in her ears, people can't help but think the opposite; she must be built for beauty and it's not so different from being on stage. On stage, the audience is not allowed to see the strain or the pain or lack of breath. They only see, or in this case saw, what she wanted them to–a principle dancer in the company and eventually the prima ballerina.

Honestly, she doesn't care what these people think–for once–because the money raised tonight is _important_. Though it's her father's name on the invitation (much too personal if it was her own) this money _is_ personal to her. It's something she _can do _when for so long, after her life fell apart, all she wanted was to do _something, anything, _to put the life she knew back together again_–_kill the other driver, curse God, become a teetotaler. Now she is doing _something_, although it is not enough. It will never be enough.

Still, she counts each time she murmurs in dulcet tones, _"__Hello, so good to see you. Thank you for coming.__"_ Then she multiplies that number by a thousand. It makes her feel better.

"Crawley." A droll voice forces her to straighten her spine. She thinks of ballet class–first position, then second, then third…She imagines her body obeying the strict instructions of her mind, gloriously clear of anything but her training and the dance.

She does not want to think of him. She doesn't want to look at him either, but she takes his hand because tonight is important and she will not allow her libido to ruin it. She doesn't want to remember the last time they touched.

"Dr. Blake," she replies formally. "Hello, so good to see you. Thank you for coming."

He doesn't release her hand. "It's good to see you. You look beautiful." He grins in that appealing way of his she hates, deliciously handsome in his tux. She doesn't want him. She doesn't want anyone but the one person she cannot have and suddenly, right there in the middle of the procession line, she wants to curl up and cry. Of course, she doesn't. She only straightens her spine and rolls her shoulders back.

Her lips curve and she speaks through her teeth. "Let go of me." He will only see what she wants him to see. As Shakespeare wrote, _all the world__'__s a stage._

Charles leans in closer, whispers one word: "Why?" His thumb caresses her skin and her hand trembles in his grasp. No, he won't let go and she doesn't think he is just speaking of this much too long handshake.

Her eyes grow wide. "_Charles._" She never uses his first name. "_Please._" She doesn't raise her eyebrow at him. She doesn't grow still. Her eyes flick meaningfully to the next person in line–an older woman who must be more than just another donor then. For all those reasons, Charles moves on to Robert Crawley, the hearty handshake awaiting him. He doesn't mean to overhear her next conversation. He is trying to pay attention to Robert and his manly slaps on the back. He doesn't know why Robert Crawley ever took a particular liking to him, especially when their ideologies are so distinctly different, especially when Charles is constantly asking Robert to give more. And yet just a few feet away…

He hears a woman's voice– not Mary's–quavering on the edge of tears. "…so thankful you invited us…" He cannot hear Mary's response. "…he would be…" Something muffles the rest, perhaps a hug, but Charles dares not look over. Frankly, he can't imagine Mary–this Mary, all ice–hugging anyone. He's listening to a private moment between a woman and Mary–the most private women he's ever known. "….beautiful. Your dress matches his eyes."

This time Charles does glance at Mary without meaning to, at the gown in an icy blue, warmed by her pale skin. Crystals fan out from the top like a sunburst, falling down the dress and she should look cold, untouchable–like an ice queen–but it's the opposite, particularly because he can remember the way she tastes, her skin beneath his hands. Or maybe he is just contrary. Maybe her stillness makes him long for the length of her body moving in tandem with his own. Her coolness leaves him wanting to taste the salt of her sweat on the curve of her neck.

Unexpectedly, she turns her head and stares directly at him. There is left over emotion in her eyes from the partially overheard conversation–though there are no tears. It is pure and naked sorrow which slowly gives way towards accusation as her eyes narrow on him. Desire and guilt tangle inside of him. She doesn't know what he heard but she knows he heard something. Her mouth firms. She raises a single eyebrow. It's clear that if it is possible to loathe him more than before, she now does.

When she can, and the line of people ends, Mary slips from the room. She sees an exit and takes it without a second thought. Years ago, she thought retreat was a weakness. Now she knows that in order to preserve the whole–that is, herself–there are necessary weaknesses. She cannot breathe; she's faking it, telling herself to inhale and exhale, as if she is taking a yoga class or some such thing. Again, to fight down panic, she imagines herself dropping into a plié, muscles well oiled. Yes, she is built for strength but this is one of the most difficult events of the year and Blake's presence, his scrutiny, his eyes which demand she remember limo rides and nights spent writhing on her bed make it complicated, turning her stomach into knots. _Writhing? _God. She feels as if she is betraying–

"Mary? Is everything all right?"

Mary slows her breathing and when she turns, it is with a smile on her face. She is built for strength. But her grin widens genuinely. "Tony!" She kisses his cheek and his lips brush hers. This time she means it when she says: "It's _so_ nice to see you. I haven't seen you in ages." She does not want to consider the last time she saw him. It hurts and she is tired of hurting. So she thinks of Charles which hurts in an altogether different way–that keen edge of desire so sharp it slices through her viscerally.

Tony smiles back, his wavy hair falling a bit in his face. She's always enjoyed Tony and he's always been a good friend–though circumstances kept them apart for a time, like most of her friends. "How about letting me have a turn around the room with the prettiest girl here?"

"Oh, I don't know," she demurs. "My dancing days are over." She laughs. Tony always makes her laugh, even on the worst day of her life.

"You were a prima ballerina, for God's sake," he insists. "Your dancing days will never be behind you. I'm the one that should be afraid; you're the professional."

So she allows him to bring her back into the room and sweep her onto the floor. He is a good dancer and there is some pretty applause when guests see the former ballerina on the dance floor. She will do anything so they open their wallets during the silent auction. Anything. She admits that for a moment it feels nice to be in the arms of the friend, to be dancing, to laugh as he whispers quips about the guests in her ears.

But then she reminds herself the point of this benefit in the first place and why it is so important.

She reminds herself she is built for strength.

Charles watches the couple dance around the room. He doesn't applaud because he doesn't feel like applauding. Yet his face is polite though his thoughts are otherwise engaged. He wonders if Gillingham ever stayed over, ever found the beguiling Mary with loose hair and a mouth tasting of toothpaste and coffee, the silk of her robe thin against her skin. He wonders if Mary likes Gillingham. He is jealous over the way Tony can make Mary laugh, over the smiles she gives him. Charles can't help but wonder why he likes a woman (and wants a woman) who so clearly doesn't like him, a cold woman–except when his hands are on her and suddenly she cannot breathe and she is anything but cold in his arms. Most of all, Charles wonders how he can convince her to kiss him again, her arms wrapped around his neck, fingers playing with his hair, as he takes her lip into his mouth and nibbles, until she moans and presses herself to him, until it feels like separating could only result in the end of the world.

He wonders if Mary knows that he can't help but watch her.

She feels his eyes on her. She wishes it was meant offensively but it isn't. That's part of the problem–the softness in his eyes, in his mouth, when he looks at her. He is remembering what it is like between them and so is she. Combine that with the witty repertoire between them and she knows she has to stay away. She wants to stay away. But she doesn't want to stay away. Not really. It's a complicated dance, much more complicated than then the literal one with Tony.

As the night winds down, she finally sits. She is overjoyed it is almost over, this horrible night. And yet she would not want to be anywhere else. She knows she is all difficult contradictions and she doesn't care. She doesn't _have to_ care anymore because her family is used to her and there is no one else she has to please, no relationship to work on, no compromises to be made, no one to curve her body against in the middle of the night, whispering apologies. There is no one to say: _darling, let__'__s not go to bed angry._

"Penny for your thoughts."

Before she turns to look at Charles, she makes her face bored, lips turned down. She doesn't know if she has the energy for this after one of the worst nights of the year and yet she is built for strength, not for beauty. _All the world__'__s a stage._ "I hope you weren't as stingy when it came to the auction."

He laughs. That he thinks she is funny when she is not trying to be always befuddles her, leaves her scrambling for something scathing to say. Other times, he stands beside her and straightens his spine so that if there was a mirror in front of them, no one would be able to tell the difference between them, but for gender, and height, reminding her of the countless ballet classes she attended for years. "Don't worry, _Lady Mary_. I was generous."

"Oh, shut up," she complains, turning away. He places a glass full of champagne in front of her. "And while you're at it, stop looking at me."

"I heard a gossip reporter call you American Royalty. Would you prefer Duchess? Princess? Queen? That's probably the most fitting. Queen. _And_ I'm _not _looking at you," he informs her while she rolls her eyes at him. "I'm _actively_ not looking at you."

"It's not a matter of you looking at me. I don't care if you look at me. It's how you look at me," she continues fiercely, shaking her head at him.

He moves his chair closer to hers so he can lean in and speak lowly. "How do I look at you?" He stares into her eyes until she must look away before she takes his face in her hands and kisses him.

Mary glances up at him from under her eyelashes. "Like _that_. You look at me like _that_."

He touches the bracelet against her wrist, twirling the diamonds around and around, making her shiver whenever his fingers graze the thin skin there. "How do I look at you?" he repeats. Her lips firm. How can she tell him that he looks at her as if they are pressed together, against the wall, in the dark somewhere? His eyes go heavy lidded. He looks at her as if they are in bed, as if he is inside her while she clings to him.

When he realizes, she won't answer he says, "I noticed you didn't have anything to drink. It's nearly over; have a glass. You should be very proud of yourself."

"It's my father's event," she corrects. Her fingertips brush the glass. "Champagne is my favorite. One glass and everything in my head…" She narrows her eyes at him. "One glass won't make me drunk but one glass would make it easier to make another mistake with you."

Beneath the tablecloth, his hand finds her fisted one. Slowly, he pries her fingers apart, drawing designs on her palm, until her fingertips relax, until her hand starts to tremble. "And you're so sure it would be a mistake?" She can hear the yearning in his voice, feel it in his hands. It matches her own.

With her other hand, she reaches for the glass of champagne. She drinks until the fizzing, golden liquid is gone. Her fingers close on his hand and squeeze before she releases him. "Let's go. You leave first and I'll follow in five minutes."

He grins again. She wishes he is smug so she could slap him, so she could claim he is an ass but she can't. _You should be very proud of yourself, _he told her without an ounce of cynicism. When was the last time she heard such a thing? Eighteen months ago, she thinks, and grabs his glass of champagne–only a quarter full–and downs that too.

"What if you back out and I'm outside waiting like Cinderella?" he asks, grinning that handsome grin of his.

She gives him a withering (and unfortunately for him, extremely sexy) glance. "Have you even seen Cinderella?" She pauses, playing with the stem of her glass. "Five minutes," she tells him, voice soft but even. "And by the way, about the limo? In this dress? It's a hard and fast rule."

He winks at her. "Hard and fast." If she would allow it, if this was more than it is, more than she will allow it to be, this would be the moment when he would lean in and kiss her cheek. But she won't allow it, not with her posture so perfect, which he finds himself mimicking–the shoulders back, the spine straight–before he rises to go where she will follow in five minutes…or so she says.

* * *

The limo ride is quiet and still, just as she asked. Her dress takes up much of the back seat and she stares out the window, away from him. But she does not relax; she cannot.

And yet.

There is something in the air; something is softening her bit by bit. Though she doesn't know if she can give into it. It's the wanting, the yearning, the ache in her belly, her throat. She wishes she could articulate it. She wishes, just for a moment, that she is different.

It's then that Charles reaches for her hand, hidden in the folds of her skirt. His fingertips–neither soft nor abrasive–brush against hers. The back of their hands their before he slides his palm against hers and then waits. She closes her eyes.

After a breath of hesitation, she interlaces her fingers with his. He nearly sighs with relief but he can't because the wanting, the wanting.

She finally turns her head towards him, leaning back on the black leather of the seat. "Blake," she whispers. He leans against the seat as well, their faces inches apart.

"Mary." His thumb grazes against the skin of her delicate hand. It's Mary who strains forward, the muscles in her neck stretching as she touches her lips to his. It's a quiet kiss, one that makes them both ache in their bellies to their toes. Her hand–the one he doesn't hold–reaches up on its own accord, brushes the hair back from his forehead, slides down his cheek. He lets out a quiet groan, encumbered by his suit and her dress. When the kiss ends, though they linger over it, this lovely singular kiss, their faces remain close together. "New rule," he whispers. "I'm staying over tonight."

She glances down and in doing so their foreheads touch. If this is shyness, it is new. She is a puzzle, one he is always discovering pieces too. "Okay," she replies in a hushed voice. "Okay."

* * *

It's not frantic this time which scares her a bit, as they enter her apartment. "Make yourself at home," she says uncomfortably. "I have to put this dress away."

He takes off his jacket, hangs it from the post of her bed. The size of her apartment doesn't make sense. It's so small but the space on her floor should make it bigger. "No, that's not the kind of dress, we would want to rip off and throw to the floor."

She glances up at him, though her eyes reveal nothing. "No," she agrees and passes into her closet.

He undoes his tie and the first few buttons of his shirt, removing his cufflinks, placing them on her nightstand. He pauses since his cufflinks lay so near the photograph and frame of another man.

She pads back into the bedroom, in her bare feet, champagne colored panties and a strapless bra, simple but glowing against her skin. "I'm underdressed."

"I'm overdressed." He steps towards her and kisses her. Again, it is like the limo and it's too…it's too much for her. She needs the urgency, the frantic mess where she can't think or feel. She bites his lip, roughly unbuckles his belt. She pulls him towards the bed and he seems to know exactly what she needs, as he always does, sliding his hands down her hips, beneath the material there. They fall onto the bed, his pants, and shoes, and socks, pushed off with her feet.

He can't get a breath out. "My wallet," he murmurs against the skin of her shoulder, as he removes her bra.

"Get it," she replies quickly.

Instead, he first starts pulling bobby pins from her hair. "What are you doing?" The pins fall to the bed around them in a mess.

"I like when your hair is loose and down. Not perfect." He tugs at her lip. "Because not everyone gets to see you this way."

She doesn't reply to this, only reaches up to kiss him again, her hands sliding down the muscles of his abdomen. "Your wallet," she murmurs. He reaches for it, rips the package open. Her toes point against his calf. "Mary," he whispers.

He slides into her, as they lie on their sides, and she gasps when he shudders, all the tension in his back, trying for control. "Wait," he yelps. "_Ouch._"

"What?" she asks with concern. "What happened?" Did she do something? It isn't as if she has the most experience in world.

"A bobby pin is sticking me in the ass," he grumbles.

She stares at him for a moment and then begins to laugh. The laugh turns to giant giggles and hiccups. "I just want to be clear," she says between guffaws. "I'm laughing _at_ you."

"Not with me. Got it," he smiles ruefully at her, gives her a smacking kiss, but is secretly glad to be holding her in his arms, to hear her laugh, which, ironically, may be the most intimate moment they've ever had.

"You can stop laughing now," he adds as he thrusts inside of her and she lets out a long moan, her toes arched and pointed, pressed to his calves.

* * *

_A/N: Please, if you are reading, shoot me a review. This is my first modern au. This is my first Charles x Mary. I appreciate your thoughts. A lot. A lot. A lot. LDI_


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